


incendiary

by bluecheeked



Series: tenfold, threefold [2]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: A little bit of angst, Foreshadowing, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Or at least the start of one, Overuse of Metaphor, Prologue, Secret Relationship, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:42:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24690079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecheeked/pseuds/bluecheeked
Summary: Mark wants every part of Donghyuck from the second they make eye contact, across the room at a party.(He has rules to stop this from happening, you know. Because when boys like Donghyuck look at Mark like that, he wants nothing more than to crawl into Donghyuck's heart and stay there forever, safe and loved.Because oh, would Donghyuck love him. And oh, would Mark love him back.And that, he thinks, is going to be the end of them both.)
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Series: tenfold, threefold [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1760860
Comments: 20
Kudos: 242





	incendiary

**Author's Note:**

> hello! 
> 
> as promised, i am back with part 2, which takes place directly before the events of [parenthetical](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24385669) (published first). i highly recommend you read it first, because i think this fic will a) not only make a little more sense but b) have the impact i intended by ordering them this way. 
> 
> however, if you want to read this fic and then parenthetical (chronological order vs intended order) then i'm not gonna stop you, because it'll make sense either way. do what makes you happy! 
> 
> in any case, i hope you enjoy this fic. i am not very good at writing smut, but i did my best anyway.

Mark Lee is afraid to look. 

At most things, really: horror movies, the tattoo on his shoulder, the high, high drop of roller coasters. The faces of his parents. Pretty girls. Pretty  _boys._

(That one is the newest addition to the list. It still makes his stomach turn, his most protected secret, hidden behind shadowy curtains in the most fearful part of his mind). 

But he’s especially afraid to look Donghyuck, who shines—from the makeup on his eyes to the sweat on his temple, all the way down the golden bend of his knee and strong, tense line of his thigh.

The night they met at the party, he’d been wearing ripped jeans, and Mark watched him kiss the girl who’d invited him over the top of his beer. Donghyuck had met his eyes once, twice, three times, and Mark had been forced to evacuate the crush of people and go get some air. Because Donghyuck had not been afraid—he’d _looked,_ and in the process, turned over every rock and knocked on every door in Mark’s mind. Even the secret ones.  _Especially_ the secret ones. 

And while Mark hadn’t stayed at the party very long after that, Donghyuck had lingered in Mark’s mind, legs in dark denim and eyes that laughed at the ember he’d left right in the center of Mark’s chest. 

* * *

He’s forgotten to mention the volleyball. He always forgets the volleyball, which is funny, because it’s where this all started.  _Really_ started, Donghyuck and Mark, still with spaces, before they tossed rules and principals and all sorts of guiding lights into the dirt and tried to become  _DonghyuckandMark._

That’s the _during,_ though. This is still the _before_. This is still the first volleyball game, and Mark has no idea that gym shoes and a white uniform are going to toss him headfirst into a pit of flame. 

* * *

“Seriously, please, do you know how lame it would be if I showed up by myself,” Jeno says. Mark, one hand in a bag of popcorn, tries not to dissolve against Jeno’s persistent badgering. 

“I still don’t get why you need to go to a _men’s_ volleyball game to impress this girl,” Mark replies. “I have too much history homework to do anyway.” 

“It’ll go fast,” Jeno says, crumpling a napkin and tossing it at Mark’s head. “Volleyball goes fast.” 

Mark ducks the napkin. “How do you know?” 

“I just do,” Jeno says. “She’s, like, the junior coach, Mark, and this is important to her. If I show up, it’s basically like saying, _hey, your important stuff is important to me too._ And then she’ll finally believe me when I tell her that I like her.” 

“This is the most roundabout way to ask someone out,” Mark says, but heaves himself off the couch with a sigh. “But fine. I’ll come with you.” 

“You’re the best,” Jeno says, shoulders sinking with relief. “Oh man, I owe you big-time.” 

“This girl better be worth it,” Mark says, patting Jeno on the back, “if you’re willing to go use your five minutes of spare time to go watch a sport you don’t know much about.” 

“I played volleyball for a year in middle school,” Jeno says, demonstrating a bunch of motions that Mark guesses are supposed to be volleyball moves. “See?”

“No,” Mark says. “Are we going?” 

Jeno springs to his feet and grabs his jacket. “Hell yeah, we’re going.” 

The night is cool despite the approaching spring. The leaves on the trees are just starting to appear, and the heavy rains that rumble over the city have brought the tiny daffodils and crocuses that push through the wet dirt. 

“You’re not gonna regret this,” Jeno enthuses as they make their way down to the gym. “Her friends will probably be there too—she’s got a whole squad—so maybe—” 

“I’m doing this for you, dude,” Mark says. “I’m not really in the mood for a relationship right now. You know I’ve got rules—I don’t wanna get fucked over again—”

“I know, I know,” Jeno says, holding his hands up. “I’m just saying—” 

“Jeno,” Mark interrupts, as gently as he can manage. “Please. Drop it.” 

Jeno winces. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Mark says. 

They walk a block in silence, and then Jeno finally says, “but if there was something up, you’d tell me, right?” 

Mark thinks about the boy from the party. He thinks about his legs, his smile, the look in his eye. 

“Yes,” he tells Jeno, and they both swallow his lie whole. 

* * *

Theoretically speaking, there’s no reason why a boy’s volleyball team should be the start. The gym smells terrible, and it’s too loud and bright to be an enjoyable experience. The bleachers hurt Mark’s ass after fifteen minutes, and he quickly runs out of energy to care about Jeno’s crush, who’s standing with a clipboard on the side of the court. 

The whistle blows, the ball slams down, and there’s a flurry of motion on their side of the court, the players rotating right. A boy in a different-colored jersey—white in comparison to everyone else’s navy—springs off the bench and swaps with another, slapping his hand. There’s something familiar about him, and it takes Mark a second to figure out what—but when he realizes just  _who_ he’s looking at, it’s like he’s been frozen-over and set aflame at the same time. 

It’s the boy from the party—Donghyuck, Mark remembers. His name was said right next to Mark's ear when Mark had asked, pointing with a free hand through the people straight to the other side of the room. 

Donghyuck laughs at something his teammate says, and then the whistle blows, the gym falling silent. Mark’s breath gathers in his chest as Donghyuck squats low, bracing his hands just above his knees. He’s leaning forward, almost on the balls of his feet, like he’s half a second away from taking off. The server bounces the ball a few times, and then jumps and hits it over the net so hard Mark would flinch if every part of him wasn’t focused on Donghyuck. 

He fits volleyball just as well as volleyball fits him—Mark figures out pretty quickly that his job is mostly to solidify the defense, saving seemingly out-of-bounds balls, diving and lunging and giving their team a chance to score—in a lot of different ways. He knows nothing about Donghyuck, but he sees the focus in his eyes, the delight when they score, the sweat that darkens his hairline with effort. The way he leaps to his feet when he’s on the bench. The way his body moves, skidding, reaching, calves and thighs and the curve of his ass, the dimple of his shoulder muscle, the line of his neck and throat and—

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Mark mutters, and before Jeno can ask him what’s wrong, he’s clumsily descending from the bleachers, staggering a little when he gets to the ground. 

He almost makes it to the gym door when there’s a flicker in the corner of his eye. He turns out of habit, only to find that Donghyuck is looking at him, vague recognition and a dangerous sort of curiosity lighting his face. 

_He’s sweaty, he’s gross,_ Mark thinks, frozen in place.  _He probably smells. He’s not attractive under these lights._

The last one is definitely a lie, unfortunately—the lights are shitty and fluorescent, and Mark still wants to press his fingers into Donghyuck’s thighs and kiss him until they’re both breathless. 

This thought brings a wave of  _want_ so sudden it knocks the wind out of him. Donghyuck smiles knowingly at him. Mark raises his eyebrows, challenging, pretending to be far braver than he actually feels. 

The whistle blows, and Donghyuck just hitches his shorts a little higher and turns away. He knows exactly what he’s doing—and he knows Mark, too, somehow, which really sucks. 

The cold water Mark splashes on his face doesn’t help, and neither does Jeno’s confusion as Mark tries to casually ask about the team’s libero. 

“I mean, I don’t know who he _actually_ is,” Jeno says. “I’ve seen him at parties, I guess, but I don’t know his name.” 

_Donghyuck,_ Mark’s mind supplies unhelpfully.  _It’s Donghyuck, and I think I would let him fuck me up big time._

“Why do you keep asking about him, anyway?” Jeno asks, perhaps a little too nonchalant. 

Mark’s heart jumps into his throat, but he forces himself to stay calm. 

“Just…y’know,” he stammers. “I see him a lot. Parties, and stuff. Just wondering.” 

“Okay,” Jeno says, giving him a strange look. “Is that—is it because—” 

“No, Jeno,” Mark says. “C’mon.”

Jeno sighs. “Okay,” he says again. “One of the rules?” 

“One of the rules,” Mark agrees. 

They don’t talk about Donghyuck for the rest of the game, and yet, Mark can’t find the willpower to stop looking at him. 

* * *

He thinks it ends there. 

He’s a dumbass, really. Donghyuck will tell him many times in the future, but he won’t quite get it until  _after._

For now, though, he crosses his fingers and prays to God that they’ll never, ever, meet again. 

* * *

So, naturally, the next day, Mark sees him. 

There’s not a reason, really, as to why he takes the long way back from the gym—but later, after, he’ll wonder what would’ve happened if he  _didn’t._

He’s sweaty and achy from his workout and wants nothing more at the moment than a shower and ten hours of sleep. He hadn’t slept well last night—another nightmare where he’d failed school and had to move back in with his parents, only to discover that his hometown had launched a campaign against him, and they’d figured out that he’s gay, or something equally as damning as that. 

Thinking about it now, it’s a little funny. He can’t imagine coming out to his parents—not just because it’s a terrifying thought, but because he doesn’t think they’d even  _believe_ him, not even if they watched him marry another man after a committed, loving, five-year relationship. 

_Just God’s way of testing us,_ his mother would say nervously.  _Testing our strength as a family. Our belief in Him._

She loves saying that. His older sister had died five years ago in a car wreck and his mother hadn’t even cried, just looked blankly at the urn and repeated it over and over again.  _God is just testing our strength and our belief in Him._

Mark doesn’t think God wanted his sister to die. Why would  _anybody_ want his sister to die, when everybody, including his father, including him, had loved her more than anything else in the world?

Ah, his father. He probably wouldn’t say much at all, but Mark knows the cold, hard fury of his eyes well at this point in his life. He’s the only son, and before his senior year of high school, he’d been the only one mildly interested in a degree his father considered _acceptable._ As if binging all six  _Ace Attorney_ games promised a fulfilling career in law. 

When Mark had decided on cinema and media studies, his dad had stopped talking to him. Now all he gets is a notification that his tuition has been paid, and the occasional update from his younger sister:  _yes, he’s still mad. No, he hasn’t said anything about you. No, he doesn’t know about the whole liking-boys thing._

He’s jolted from his thoughts when he about runs into a street light, dodging at the last second. He looks up and tries to figure out where he is—he’d taken the long way because the weather is nice, and he likes the playlist that’s on right now—and realizes he’s about to pass the practice gyms, the nice ones where the actual sports teams play and practice. The door of one is cracked open, spilling yellow light onto the sidewalk. There are a couple squeaks, the sound of something smacking hard on the ground—a ball, probably. 

Mark stops in the entryway, peering inside. He’s caught the end of what looks like a volleyball practice, the players inside just starting to toss balls back into a big blue cart while a few wrap up a complicated-looking drill. 

There is Donghyuck, because he plays volleyball, and Mark’s luck is awful. And he looks just as good as he did yesterday, maybe even  _better_ because he’s wearing blue, and the same pair of shorts that draw up over his thighs when he moves. He bends low to receive a ball, and Mark is once again struck by the focus in his eyes, the perfect way he controls his motion, down to the flex of his leg and the angle at which the ball hits his arms. 

That something from yesterday in Mark’s mind—where he’s written his rules so he doesn’t get fucked over by girls who pry a little too much or boys who look like Donghyuck—trembles, like it’s on the verge of splintering off and drifting away. 

Donghyuck looks up, and Mark’s struck by deja vu. Same as yesterday, Donghyuck’s face lights up, and Mark feels something foreboding and inevitable rush up his spine. 

_I am a fucking idiot,_ he thinks to himself. 

He peels away from the light, from the gym, from the column of Donghyuck’s throat and his thighs in those shorts, where Mark wants to put his hands and maybe his mouth too, just for good measure. 

_Go, go, go,_ he urges himself, shifting the weight of his gym bag and making his way back up the path towards the road. 

There are footsteps behind him, hurried, and then—

“Hey, wait up!” 

_I am a fucking idiot,_ he tells himself again, despairingly, but stops in his tracks anyway and pulls out a headphone. Donghyuck catches up to him, stopping five feet away and breaking into a grin, running a hand through his hair. He’s so, so dangerously _attractive_ —in the worst sort of way, where he half-knows it but doesn’t really bother to leverage it, so he just sort of  _chills,_ looking hot but not actively  _acting_ like it. He’s impossible to ignore, an already-vicious itch under Mark’s skin that begs to be scratched. 

(But it _can't_ be scratched, because Mark is a boy and so is Donghyuck, and they have so very few people rooting for them). 

“You’re here again,” Donghyuck says triumphantly. “Mark Lee, right? I saw you yesterday.” 

“That’s me,” Mark says weakly. “You, uh, played well.” 

“I’m Donghyuck,” Donghyuck says. 

_I know,_ Mark thinks, stuffing his hands into his pockets.  _I think I want to kiss you._

“Are you heading back to campus?” Donghyuck asks, scuffing a sneaker against the ground. 

“Yeah, I’ve got an apartment just past there,” Mark says. “Are you in the dorms?” 

“Nah, I’m in a house with a couple roommates,” Donghyuck says. He fidgets or a moment with his zipper, and Mark tries to figure out a polite way to say  _goodbye, please never look at me again or I’ll combust._

“Want to walk together?” Donghyuck asks after a moment, tilting his head. There’s another question in there, buried beneath the surface, and Mark has never wanted anything—or anyone  _this badly_ in his life, so he answers despite the warning bells going off in his head. 

“Yeah,” Mark says, and it’s easy as that. 

They fall into step, Donghyuck filling the silence with talk about mutual friends and volleyball and the classes he taking. Mark can tell he’s a little nervous, but doesn’t comment; after all, he’s nervous too, except it manifests as silence. 

“Anyway, funny I ran into you,” Donghyuck says, whacking Mark gently on the shoulder. “I was just thinking about you.” 

“You—what?” Mark asks, stopping dead in his tracks. “ _Me_?”

Donghyuck shrugs. Still nervous, but curious, now, too. “All of a sudden, you’re everywhere. And you…sort of were staring yesterday, you know.” 

Mark immediately feels sick to his stomach, guilt hot and bitter in his throat. He  _knew_ he must’ve been making Donghyuck uncomfortable. He shouldn’t have gone. He should’ve left as soon as he saw Donghyuck, as soon as he  _looked_ —

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry,” Mark says. “It was fucked-up, and I—” 

“Whoa, whoa,” Donghyuck interrupts, holding up his hands. “I’m not—this isn’t me trying to attack you.” 

Mark looks up, surprised. “You’re…not? But didn’t you just say—?” 

“I’ve gotten looked at in a billion different ways, Mark,” Donghyuck says. “It wasn’t…creepy, or anything like that. Just, um, focused, I guess. Really, really focused. It sort of threw me off.” 

“Oh,” Mark says. He has no idea what that means in the slightest, and he’s not sure if he wants to. “So…?”

“So,” Donghyuck says, and starts walking again. It takes Mark a couple seconds to kick his legs back into motion, trailing half a step behind Donghyuck. “It wasn’t bad.” 

Mark studies Donghyuck for a long moment as they walk, chewing on questions he’s too afraid to ask.  _Are you like me? Does anybody know? Do_ you _even know? Do you want to kiss me too?_

The last thought is invasive and sudden enough to make him lose his focus for half a second, and he trips on an uneven part of the sidewalk, stumbling forward. Donghyuck catches him easily—he’s fast, Mark notices, and his hands are so steady—his hands on Mark’s arms, drawing him close and out of the way. 

“Are you alright?” Donghyuck asks. His hands are still on Mark’s biceps, and the warmth of them threatens to set Mark’s skin on fire. 

“Yeah,” Mark says. “Thanks for catching me.” 

“That’s sort of my job,” Donghyuck says, and it’s a joke but doesn’t sound like one, doesn’t _feel_ like one, either, not with Donghyuck standing so close, his eyes focused and narrowed, flitting over Mark’s face like he’s looking for an answer. 

Neither of them moves. Donghyuck looks, and Mark lets him. His eyes land on Mark’s mouth, flit back up, and then fall again. 

There’s a deep, powerful tug in Mark’s gut, a pang that sends electricity up his spine. He swallows, and slowly, Donghyuck brings a hand up, pressing gently just below the hinge of Mark’s jaw. 

Mark swallows, and Donghyuck steps back slowly, nodding like he’s found what he’s looking for. The tension fades, and the air between them cools. Donghyuck tilts his head back and clicks his tongue. 

“Damn,” he says. “I think it’s gonna rain.” 

* * *

It pours that night, and the thunder keeps Mark awake past midnight, squinting at the dimmed screen of his phone like the number under Donghyuck’s name is going to be washed away by the rain. 

* * *

Mark cashes in Jeno’s volleyball favor at the end of the week, dragging him to a party just after ten, picking up a couple more friends on the way. There’s Yaeji, whose bangs are neat and smiles widely when Mark offers her a beer from his pocket. Then comes Jungwoo, wearing too much silver and towering above the rest of their group. Finally, there’s Kimberly, her makeup and hair immaculate, and her boyfriend, who doesn’t say much and manages to smoke five cigarettes before they even get there. Mark doesn’t know his name, and doesn’t bother asking. 

They stop at the porch. It’s not a terribly crowded party, which is nice—partially because it makes him anxious, but also because it means he’s got a better chance of finding Donghyuck. 

“I still don’t understand why you wanted to come here so badly,” Jeno says, frowning. “Isn’t this, like, the opposite of your vibe?” 

“I wanted to see my friends,” Mark says, and that, at least, is partially true. “I haven’t seen Yaeji or Kimberly since before spring break.” 

“True,” Kimberly says. Her sullen boyfriend stubs out his cigarette, and she doesn’t even blink as he taps out another one. Yaeji wrinkles her nose. 

“Let’s go get a little more drunk and then we can dance,” Kimberly is saying, taking half-steps towards the front door. “And—ooh, they’ve got a backyard! We can catch up, how’s that sound?” 

There’s a rush of humidity as they open the door, the bass in the music pressing dully against Mark’s ears. He feels Jeno grab the back of his shirt as he pushes his way through the people dancing and to the kitchen, and it’s in the marginal light that he realizes it’d been Yaeji that had followed him, not Jeno. 

“I have vodka!” she shouts with a grin, reaching into one of the massive pockets of her nylon jacket and pulling a bottle out. 

“Oh, nice,” Mark says, and she slaps his outstretched hand. 

“Do you mind sharing?” she asks. “I’m not wearing any lipstick.” 

“It’s your vodka,” Mark laughs, and she scrunches her nose at him.“I should be asking if  _you_ mind sharing.” 

She whacks him lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t be an ass.” She takes a short sip and passes it to him. 

Time slowly liquifies from there. Mark likes Yaeji because she’s so easy to talk to—upfront, attentive, and sweet. They pass the vodka back and forth for a little, catching up, before they both get pulled into the crowd to dance by Kimberly. Jungwoo appears to confess his love to both of them before vanishing again, and Kimberly’s boyfriend quickly loses interest in dancing, meaning Kimberly has to go find him and apologize for being friends with so many _basic people,_ as her boyfriend had put it. Jeno breaks off when he sees some of his friends from whatever sport he’s playing right now, promising to find him later. 

Which leaves just Mark and Yaeji, half-dancing, half-jumping as throwback hits and bass-heavy hip hop songs fill the warm room. The floorboards squeak and give a little beneath their feet, and Mark enjoys himself so thoroughly that he actually forgets about Donghyuck for a record amount of time. 

Granted, it’s only about ten minutes, but still. Donghyuck had followed him all the way into his dreams—into ones where he traces a searing line down the front of Mark’s chest with his hands, his mouth nothing more than an imaginary heat on Mark’s throat, his hipbone, his—

“Eleven-eleven, Mark!” Yaeji shouts, holding up her phone. “Make a wish!” Yaeji closes her eyes briefly, dances a little closer, and puts a cautious hand on Mark’s shoulder. A question. 

_Donghyuck,_ Mark thinks, and, like magic—like fate—like disaster rushing at him headlong from the opposite side of the road—he’s there, his face lighting up just like it did when he saw Mark in the doorway of the gym. 

“Hey!” Donghyuck says cheerfully. He’s wearing a floral-print shirt and a few necklaces, his mouth shiny with gloss or alcohol or something equally as tempting. “Mark! I didn’t think I’d see you here!” 

Yaeji’s hand falls from his shoulder when Donghyuck leans in to hug him—brief, one arm around his shoulder. 

“How’s it going?” Mark asks, trying not to sound too…relieved. Or triumphant. Or terrified. Or possibly all three. 

“A lot better now that I’ve given up on homework,” Donghyuck says, and Mark laughs. He, too, had been on the edge of indecisiveness—but then his essay had gotten the best of him, and he’d been absolutely unable to get Donghyuck out of his mind. And now he’s here, with Donghyuck finally in front of him. 

“What class?” Mark asks. 

“What?” Donghyuck asks, leaning in. Mark watches the silky material of his shirt slip over his collarbone and swallows dryly. 

“What class?” Mark repeats. 

“Oh, chemistry,” Donghyuck says. “It’s so fucked. They have no empathy whatsoever.” 

“Do not get me started on the STEM classes here,” Mark threatens, only half-joking. “It’s _so_ fucked.” 

The song changes, and Mark remembers Yaeji with a rush of guilt. She’s still there, bopping from side to side. The only sign that she’s hurt is the tiny frown that quickly eases when Mark turns to her, nudging her shoulder. 

“This is Yaeji,” Mark says. “One of my good friends. Yaeji, this is Donghyuck.” 

“Hi, Yaeji,” Donghyuck says, and Mark watches with a fair amount of awe as Yaeji warms immediately to him. “Nice to meet you! I really like your t-shirt.” 

Yaeji looks down at the shirt she’s wearing. It _is_ nice, Mark supposes—white, with a vaguely familiar print on the front. “Oh, really? I got it as a gift.” 

“I love Monet,” Donghyuck says enthusiastically. “Actually, I really love the Impressionist movement in general.” 

Yaeji’s eyes light up, and Mark watches Donghyuck carefully. At first glance, he’s all easy attractiveness and charisma. At second, he’s the warm shape of his mouth and eyes, welcoming, beckoning. At third, he’s the hard, strong lines of his body, focused and detail-oriented. 

Mark has no idea what more could be  _under_ —but he  _wants_ to, and not in the way that he thought Jeno was cool and funny. 

“Mark, oh my god, we’ve found a science major with a heart,” she says excitedly, grabbing his arm. Donghyuck’s eyes track the motion, and flick up to Mark’s face—a question. 

“Yeah,” Mark says, watching Donghyuck’s face carefully. “I guess we have. I wonder what else he’s hiding?” 

Donghyuck’s smile grows, and Mark feels a little thrill of anticipation in his stomach. 

“I’m going to get another drink,” Yaeji says. “But we should definitely go somewhere quieter.” She turns to Donghyuck. “Do you know Pissarro? He’s Mark’s favorite.” 

“I like  _The Boulevard Montmartre at Night,_ ” Donghyuck says, nodding, and Mark's hands twitch at his sides. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this confused, awestruck, and turned on by a person _ever_ in his life. 

There’s a hand on his waist. Donghyuck. Mark startles and takes a step back—habit, fear, habit—but Donghyuck doesn’t recoil. He lets Mark guide them backward, out of the living room and towards the foot of the staircase, blocked with a knotted-up sheet. A sign reads  _PLEASE DON’T!_ is taped to it. 

He touches Mark on the chest, right on the sternum, right on the ember that he’d stuck there last time. The kindling in Mark’s lungs threatens to catch aflame. 

“What are you doing here, really?” Donghyuck asks, like he doesn’t know the answer. 

“Why do you know so much about French Impressionists?” Mark replies. 

Donghyuck shrugs. “Because I like Impressionism. And Impressionism…impresses boys.” 

“…boys?” Mark says slowly, because he can’t quite believe it. 

“Boys,” Donghyuck confirms. “Unless I’m reading this totally incorrectly, and then it’s girls.” 

“No,” Mark says. “You’re not. I just have, like—rules, or whatever, basically, I’m a coward, or whatever—” 

“Not a coward,” Donghyuck interrupts firmly. “I don’t wanna hear you say that. You’re not a coward.” 

And it’s funny, because Mark almost believes him, right then and there. Mark doesn’t know Donghyuck and Donghyuck doesn’t know him, and yet.  _And yet._

“Want to smoke?” Mark asks. 

“Sure,” Donghyuck says. “Didn’t think you were the type, though. Your clothes are too neat.” 

“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” Mark says. “Should we go outside?” 

“Nah, we can smoke in my room,” Donghyuck says, lifting the sheet and the sign and ducking under it. Mark stops in his tracks, looking between the staircase and Donghyuck. 

“Wait, you _live_ here?” Mark says, thinking about the beer he’d spilled and the empty bottle and cans he’d left in the kitchen. “Fuck, I—” 

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Donghyuck assures him, shaking the sheet. “We wouldn’t have thrown a party if we didn’t want people leaving their shit everywhere. C’mon, I don’t want anybody else up here.” 

Mark ducks underneath the sheet barrier, and they climb the creaky stairs. Donghyuck’s room is at the end of the hallway, and he doesn’t bother turning on the light as he opens the window. The music and the people sound muffled up here—like they’ve entered a different world, a different reality that exists only on this side of the walls. 

Mark’s hands shake a little as he pulls the joint from its baggie, followed by the lighter he’d taken from the last girl he’d dated. She’d smoked cigarettes, but had dumped him as soon as she’d found out about the weed. (And the boys, but Mark likes to pretend that it was the former that caused them to break up, not the latter.) 

The bass rattles the floorboards beneath them, and Mark breathes in. The smoke fills his lungs, and he lets it settle for a second, and then two, before breathing out. 

Donghyuck takes a small hit, coughs a little bit, and passes it back before he plops down on his bed. His room is messy, but not dirty—the clothes on his chair are folded, and the clutter on his desk is in stacks, not strewn all over. 

“Tell me about Mark Lee,” Donghyuck says as Mark exhales smoke out the window. “What’s one thing you like more than anything else?” 

“ _Star Wars_ ,” Mark says without thinking. Donghyuck’s eyebrows go up. “Those movies are the reason why I’m even still in college,” he explains. “If I had to do anything other than cinema studies, I would’ve dropped out by now.” 

“Whoa, really?” Donghyuck asks. He takes the joint. “I never would’ve pegged you for a movies guy.” 

“Guess we’re both just full of surprises,” Mark says. Now that the pressure of being watched was gone, he relaxes somewhat. The weed helps too, leaching the tension from his shoulders and hands. Donghyuck leans forward, across Mark’s body, towards the window. He puts a hand on the mattress next to Mark’s knee, his shoulder nudging at Mark’s. He breathes out. Mark breathes in, and then leans forward and kisses him.

It’s short—half a second, really, before Mark realizes what he’s doing and jerks away, staggering to his feet. 

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Mark says, fear curling in his stomach like smoke from the joint Donghyuck is still holding. “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked. I just—” 

“Mark,” Donghyuck says, getting to his feet also. There’s something steady and warm about him, and Mark wants to sit back down and tell him everything and then cry, maybe, even though he hasn’t cried in months. 

But there are rules.  _His_ rules. No girls who make fun of him, no hooking up with people he’s talked to for long, and no falling in love with boys who look at him like Mark could be safe here, with them, for more than fifteen minutes. 

“I’m going to go, Donghyuck,” Mark says, edging towards the door. Something torn flickers on the edge of Donghyuck’s expression, but he doesn’t try to stop him. “I’m sorry.” 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Donghyuck replies softly. “Do you want your joint?” 

“You can have the rest,” Mark says. 

They stare at each other for one more second, and Mark thinks Donghyuck is going to say something for half a second. He doesn’t, though, and Mark leaves his bedroom. 

Reality comes back like a switch has been flipped—the music is too loud again, the air too humid, the room too crowded. He’s not even drunk anymore, just stoned and confused, and he wants to go to bed. 

He does a half-assed job of looking for his friends, giving up when they’re not in immediate view. He does text them, though, because he’s not a  _total_ dick. Yaeji just replies with an _ok,_ and Mark remembers that he and Donghyuck had, technically, ditched her to go smoke and then kiss. 

He fights back the memory of it—not that it’s much of a memory anyway, because it’d been so short. 

The shower helps a little, and the weed drags him towards sleep, though it’s hard to chase Donghyuck from his mind, who ducks and weaves, just out of reach. There are layers to him, now—his legs in the gym lighting, the purse of his mouth when he looked at the sky, the wide-eyed look on his face when Mark had kissed him just a little while ago. 

Mark turns over and presses his face into the pillow. If he can just sleep—if he can just get his brain to rest, it’ll all make more sense in the morning. The light will change, and so will his mind. 

* * *

Whoever told him that is a big fucking liar. 

* * *

_I have a game this Thursday,_ Donghyuck texts on Saturday.  _If you want, you can come._

Mark dreams and wants more so badly he burns.

* * *

And that is how Mark finds himself standing in front of the gym again, a repeat of that first time with Jeno, except this time, it’s just him. 

He stops on the sidewalk and steels himself. Some part of him knows that once he steps foot in the gym, something is going to begin. 

“Hey, Mark!” 

Mark turns to see Yaeji, smiling brightly. She waves, the bracelets on her wrist chiming gently. 

“Hi, Yaeji,” he replies. “What brings you this way?” 

“I just got done with class,” she says, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Ugh, it’s so boring. The professor has no idea how to present the content in an engaging way.” 

“One of those dry, old dudes?” 

Yaeji laughs. “You know the type.” She taps her phone screen to check the time. “What are you doing right now? Do you want to get dinner?” 

Mark hesitates. 

Yaeji’s phone background is her and her sister under some cherry blossoms, and there’s something glittery on her cheeks. She smells nice—perfume-y, shampoo-y. Feminine. God, his parents would  _love_ her. She’s in pre-law, she wears little floral dresses and chews with her mouth closed. She’s funny, sweet, smart, and she would love him in a good way, the right way, and maybe one day Mark would love her back, too. 

But he can’t right now. Not when he wants Donghyuck with every fiber he’s made of, when his blood has turned to golden fire and the poetry on his shoulder suddenly makes sense. 

“Mark?” Yaeji asks, and Mark looks back over his shoulder at the entrance to the gym, his gut twisting. He can imagine the slam of the ball on the floor, the squeak of gym shoes. That awful, terrible smell and the too-bright lights. And Donghyuck, in the center of it all, with that mouth of his, with those legs. 

And he makes a choice. 

“I can’t tonight,” he tells her. “I’m really sorry.” 

“Oh,” she says after a moment. “Well, that’s okay. Can I see you soon, though? Tomorrow, maybe, after your afternoon class?” 

“Sure,” Mark says, and tries to sound like he means it. 

“We can go get noodles,” Yaeji suggests. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” 

“Yeah, it would,” Mark says. She scuffs her sneaker on the ground a few times. There’s an eyelash on her cheek that Mark wants to reach out and brush away, but he keeps his hands in his pockets. 

“Okay,” she says. “I’m gonna go catch my bus.” 

“Get home safe,” he says, and she gives him a slow smile, crossing her arms tightly over her chest against the chill. Then she turns on her heel and starts up the hill towards the bus stop, her sports bag jostling with every step. 

Mark only watches her go for a few seconds, and then he opens the door to the gym. His heart is in his throat, but there’s no more time, no more room for doubt, because Donghyuck is there at the back end of the court. He’s wearing a white jersey, and Mark stares at him for so long that the image of Donghyuck’s legs and the clean shape of his neck and shoulders will stay in his mind forever, even when this is all over. 

The ball flies over the net towards him, and Mark watches as he pauses and almost _misses_ the ball before he dives into action at the last second, exploding off of his feet. His knees hit the ground with a painful-sounding _thud._ Mark winces, but it seems to have done the trick—the ball goes soaring back to the other side. 

Mark doesn’t know how much time passes, only that his side starts to ache from where he’s propped against the doorway. By the time the game is over—victory goes, once again, to their school—Donghyuck’s neck is red, and there’s a stumbling jerkiness to his actions as he high-fives his teammates and the competitors. 

He knows Mark’s here, waiting. He’d been the one to give Mark the choice— _Mark_ should be the nervous, stumbling one. Not the other way around. 

Donghyuck finally looks over his shoulder at Mark, and time freezes when their eyes meet, and then spins forward again in a rush when Donghyuck smiles. 

His lungs don’t work quite right, so it’s without air that he waits for Donghyuck, who walks across the gym like each step  _means_ something. 

“You came,” Donghyuck says simply. He’s still smiling. 

“Yeah,” Mark says. “Is that okay?” 

“That’s okay,” Donghyuck replies. “Will you walk with me?” 

“Yes.” Mark would walk him from the gym every single day for the rest of his miserable, short life if Donghyuck asked him to. 

Spring is coming, Mark realizes as they walk back up the slope towards their houses. The trees have unfurled their leaves, and the dying sun casts long shadows towards the east. The air smells like rain, but the sky is clear. They talk a little on their way back—about class, mostly, with the same stumbling jerkiness that’s marked so many of their interactions, like they’re headed towards something inevitable but don’t know how to get there yet. 

Which is why it takes the entire walk back to Donghyuck’s house for Donghyuck to turn to him, eyebrows raised, and ask: 

“You watch me an awful lot for someone who’s supposedly afraid of kissing boys, Mark Lee.” 

And it’s also why it takes Mark a whole five seconds of stuttering and blushing to find his confidence and reply with: 

“Yeah, and?” 

“And,” Donghyuck says slowly, “I think you want something.” 

“I want a lot of things,” Mark replies, crossing his arms. Two can play this game. He just hopes they won’t have to play it for very long. “Good grades. Parents that love me. Some weed. More money.” 

Donghyuck crosses his arms too, mirroring Mark. “You’re not very funny.” 

“You’re laughing, though,” Mark points out, and it’s true, though Donghyuck is quick to wipe his smile off his face. 

“Why do you look at me like that?” Donghyuck asks again. “Like I’m—like you—” 

“Like I want to kiss you?” 

“Like you want to kiss me  _again_ ,” Donghyuck corrects. 

“Formalities,” Mark says, swallowing. 

(It’s a lie—it’s not a formality, it’s a truth. Mark always wants to kiss Donghyuck again. That will prove to be a bit of a problem, they’ll discover. A bit of a problem indeed). 

“Then why don’t you?” Donghyuck asks, and this time, Mark tells him the truth. 

“Because I’m afraid,” Mark says. “Because I’m afraid of looking, and I’m afraid of kissing you, and I’ve got a bunch of rules.” 

“We can follow the rules,” Donghyuck promises. “And you don’t _seem_ like you’re afraid of looking. You’re pretty good at it, actually.” His cheeks get pink again, but he doesn’t back down. “Well?”

“Well, what?” 

“Are you going to come in?” 

He doesn’t need to answer that, because Donghyuck, who is not afraid of looking, can tell just by glancing at Mark’s face. 

* * *

This is how the inevitable goes. It’s a little neater than both of them expected, but then again, beginnings are the easy part. 

* * *

Donghyuck kisses like he plays volleyball, with the same focus and skill and half-control, the electricity in him barely contained by skin and bone. He pins Mark against the door to his bedroom and pushes his hands under Mark’s shirt, rolling his hips and swallowing Mark’s responding groan. 

“We can’t be, like, super loud,” Donghyuck says, pulling back. “My roommates could come back at any second.” 

“Got it,” Mark replies breathlessly. “Now get back here.” 

Donghyuck laughs and lets Mark pull him back in by his waist, kissing him deeply like he’s wanted to since the first time he saw Donghyuck in those jeans at the party. Donghyuck’s tongue curls against his, and Mark puts his hands on Donghyuck’s ass and kisses him harder. 

Donghyuck reaches between them and palms at the front of Mark’s jeans, where he’s already hard. It’s only been a couple minutes, and it’d be embarrassing if it were anybody else—but it’s Donghyuck, who fits, who looks at him like he can taste the fire in Mark’s blood. 

Mark loses his jeans somewhere between the door and the bed, and Donghyuck is quick to pull him out of his shirt, too, kissing down Mark’s chest, teeth grazing his hipbone, his nipple, lingering under his collarbone long enough to bruise. 

Mark’s breath comes short. “You’re still in your clothes,” he notices, tugging at the front of Donghyuck’s shirt. 

“We can fix that,” Donghyuck says, and then it’s both of them in their underwear, Mark propped against the headboard, Donghyuck between his legs. 

There’s a terrifying, vulnerable moment where they both stare at each other, and Mark can hear Donghyuck's thoughts, clear as day:  _are we really going to start this?_

But then Mark looks at Donghyuck— _really_ looks at him, gorgeous and messy-haired, watching him with uncertainty. And of course they’re going to start this, because Mark is on fire and he wants one thing and one thing only: Donghyuck. 

So he pulls Donghyuck close and kisses him with everything he’s got, and Donghyuck moans, breathy and low, and rises up onto his knees, cradling Mark’s face. Mark’s hands go to his thighs, the strong muscle bunching under his fingertips. Donghyuck seats himself right in Mark’s lap, and he’s hard, too, the heat of his body burning through the flimsy fabric of their underwear, sinking into Mark’s skin where it feeds the inferno. 

Mark grips Donghyuck’s thighs harder, rolling his hips experimentally. Donghyuck's breath catches, and tears his mouth from Mark's, eyelashes fluttering.

“Do that again,” he says, bracing a hand on the headboard behind them. Mark repeats the motion, and Donghyuck groans into the crook of Mark’s shoulder. It’s not a terribly good fit, but Donghyuck picks up the pace and Mark feels the pressure building in his lower belly, behind his knees. He holds Donghyuck hard enough to bruise, gritting his teeth so hard they creak. 

“You’re so—you’re so fucking hot,” he gasps, watching Donghyuck grind against his thigh, a hand still pressed to his mouth. Donghyuck’s hips stutter and then still, wetness soaking through the front of his boxers. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” he breathes, relaxing against Mark. “That’s embarrassing. I wanted—” he cuts himself off, cheeks pinking. 

“What,” Mark asks, tapping a thumb on Donghyuck’s hip. “What did you want?” 

“I wanted you to fuck me,” Donghyuck says quietly, “if you don’t mind. Please.” 

“You want me…to top?” Mark asks, blinking at him. “Are you sure?” 

“You’re looking at me like that,” Donghyuck murmurs, running a finger over Mark’s bottom lip. 

“Like what?” 

Donghyuck sits back, tousled and pink-cheeked. “Will you?” 

“Absolutely,” Mark agrees, and every other thought flies from his mind. 

Donghyuck pulls a condom and lube out of a drawer. “Do you want to prep—” 

“Yes, yes,” Mark says, jumping at the chance to put his hands on Donghyuck again. “Yeah.”

“Okay, good, because it hurts my wrist,” Donghyuck says, and finally pulls off his underwear, lying back in the spot Mark had been sitting in a minute before. He fidgets self-consciously, and Mark tries to stop staring, but it’s near impossible—Donghyuck had entranced Mark clothed, sweaty, and from far away. And now he’s here, naked, golden, and right under Mark’s hands. 

It is the one time in his life where he’s not afraid to look. Because Donghyuck deserves it—to be looked at like he’s worth more than every damn treasure in the world.

“Faster,” Donghyuck says, nudging Mark with his foot. “My roommates are gonna be back any second.” 

Mark tries to be careful, but it’s hard when Donghyuck is practically doing all the work himself, demanding more, rocking back against Mark’s fingers. Any post-orgasm sluggishness that had tugged at him a couple of minutes ago is gone. The fire spreads from Mark’s blood to his bones, a roar of sparks and embers, when the pads of his fingers brush a spot that makes Donghyuck’s whole body jerk, his knee against Mark’s ribcage. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Donghyuck whispers, pressing his hand against his mouth again. 

“Good?” Mark asks, even though he  _knows_ it is, watching Donghyuck’s eyes squeeze shut.

“You’re so good,” Donghyuck agrees, coy despite his breathlessness. “Such a good boy.” 

The praise hits Mark in that one spot in his gut, tugging like a fishhook. Mark pinches one of his nipples in retribution, getting a gasp and another leg jerk from Donghyuck, and then takes his hand away. 

Donghyuck whines at the loss of contact. “What happened to fast?” 

“I’m putting the condom on, give me a second,” Mark says, reaching behind him for it. 

Donghyuck grins at him. “I can’t believe you have a—” 

“Do not finish that sentence,” Mark threatens, “or else.” 

“Ooh, scary,” Donghyuck says, but the effect is slightly ruined by the fact that he’s flushed down to his belly, his hair awry. 

Mark settles between Donghyuck’s legs again, leaning over him. “Are you ready?” he asks. 

Donghyuck nods, Mark pushes in, and Donghyuck leans up and kisses him with mostly teeth. Sensations overwhelm Mark from a hundred different directions, and it’s the sound of Donghyuck’s breath in his ear that keeps him grounded. 

“Go,” Donghyuck says. “Fast.”

And so they finally burn together. 

The pace is aggressive, verging on unforgiving. Donghyuck bends nearly in half and Mark can’t get more than half a lungful of air, the bed squeaking with their motion. Donghyuck’s eyes close, back arching, and he says Mark’s name as quiet as he can, barely a breath on his lips.

Mark comes first, but is quick with his hands, leaning up to kiss Donghyuck and savoring the way he scrabbles at Mark’s back, legs sliding flat as his muscles give out, chest heaving. 

Mark moves off of him, catching his breath. Like this, post-orgasm, warm, smelling like a boy he likes more than he should, it’s easy to pretend like he hasn’t jumped headfirst into serious shit. 

He silently takes the tissues Donghyuck offers him, tossing the condom into the trash can before he flops onto his stomach. It feels like the night of the party again—here, in Donghyuck’s room, he’s safe from the outside, from reality. From having to think about what, inevitably, comes next. 

“I didn’t know you had a tattoo,” Donghyuck says, and his fingers brush over Mark’s shoulder blade. “What’s it mean?” 

“It’s a poem from e.e. cummings,” Mark explains, propping his chin on his hand so he can look at Donghyuck. “I don’t really know what it means, but it was my older sister’s favorite poem. 

“Your older sister?” Donghyuck asks in surprise, and Mark starts to remember just how little they know about each other. 

_Good,_ he thinks.  _The less we know, the better. The easier it’ll be when we both have to go._

“She died in a car accident almost five years ago,” Mark says, and Donghyuck goes quiet, still tracing the words Mark can’t see but knows are there. “The anniversary is coming up in two and a half months, actually.” 

They lie there for a couple minutes more. Mark wonders if he could ask Donghyuck out for dinner. He wants to, but doesn’t know how—doesn’t know if he can. Still, though, he  _wants_ it—something. Anything. More Monet, another kiss, another look at Donghyuck. A secret, a habit, a tiny spot inside of his heart, maybe, where he can stay forever. And if not forever, at least a very long time, until he’s old and time has unspooled around him. Around him and Donghyuck both. 

Dread finally catches up to him, ushered in by the cool blue light and that last thought, particularly worrisome and stubborn. The part that spits at the spaces between their names, that calls for hands on thighs and mouths on necks. That calls for more love, more sex, more time in an in-between space where neither of them should be. 

Mark sits up. The burning, at least, has lifted slightly. He doesn’t want to know what will come and take its place. 

Donghyuck puts a hand on Mark’s lower back, and Mark squeezes his eyes shut. He’s afraid to look, and this will be far easier to say if he doesn’t have to watch Donghyuck’s face. 

He takes a breath. 

“They can’t know.” 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for all the love on the last fic. it means the world for me--and maybe more than that, too. thank you for reading this one also!! i hope everyone is (sort of??) looking forward to the last one. hopefully that'll come soon!
> 
> also some people were worried so i am here to say: there is still one more fic and nowhere have i tagged sad ending. it is just... unresolved.....


End file.
